Fevered Freak
by charlie1902
Summary: John doctors Sherlock while the younger man has a fever.


**Title:** Freak

**Author:** charlie1902

**Fandom:** Sherlock (BBC)

**Genre: **Angst

**Rating:** T

**Warning: **Nothing explicit but note the rating

**Spoilers: **Season one (can you call three episodes a season?)

**Summery:** John doctors Sherlock while the younger man has a fever

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the characters you recognise but do own the ones you don't. This is my way of loving them.

Thanks to my beta Trik

Sherlock, running a high fever, lay tossing and turning on the sofa. Earlier when he was still coherent he had begged John not to take him to a hospital. The change from Sherlock's normal demanding attitude had shocked John into agreeing and getting his medical bag ready instead. The world's only consulting detective had been fighting a cold for the past week when he, for a reason unknown to John, decided to spend all the previous night wondering around London while heavy rain and strong winds battered England's capital.

John stood slowly and removed the makeshift cold press from Sherlock's forehead. The sudden heat made the younger man moan and twist round to face the room and their open window. His eyes fluttered open,

"Mycroft, I'm hot," he mumbled.

"Sherlock?" the doctor questioned concerned, was his friend/colleague/roommate hallucinating, dreaming or just confused,

"John?" the doctor arched his back slightly and rolled his head to view the man by his side,

"Yes Sherlock, it's me, are you sure you don't want to go to a hospital?"

"I don' like hospitals," cloudy eyes closed briefly before opening in alarm,

"I can trust you can't I?" the weakened man grabbed John's wrist and gazed into his eyes searchingly,

"Yea Sherlock, of course," the younger man didn't look too convinced and worried at his lips,

"I might say stuff …" Sherlock's sweat soaked hair stuck to his face curling into his left eye,

"Sherlock I promise I won't repeat anything you say when you're like this,"

"Not in your blog?"

"No,"

"Or to Donovan, or Anderson?"

"No of course not," Sherlock paused and then asked once more slowly,

"Or my brother?"

"No," John's answer was strong and reassuring and enough for Sherlock to loosen his grip and close his eyes again.

Years ago when John and Harry had been teenagers John's sister had broken her arm playing netball at school. While in hospital she had, had a reaction to the sedative she was given and ended up with a similar high fever. John remembered standing around with the whole family while she outed herself giggling about her 'well fit' teammates. John had not been too surprised but their parents had been horrified. John always remembered how devastated Harry had been when she was coherent again.

The doctor thought back to the angry, hurt look Sherlock had given him when Sally Donovan had mocked the genius with information she had learnt through reading his blog. He had felt guilty at the time and those feelings had grown each time they had clashed with her or Anderson.

John got up and soaked another t-shirt of his in cold water from the tap in the kitchen before returning to Sherlock's side and laying it on the mans forehead.

"Thank you John, I'm sorry for ruining your night," Sherlock was concentrating hard on what he was saying but his words were still slurred,

"Sherlock Holmes apologising? Now I know you're not feeling well," John tried to joke but Sherlock had drifted off to sleep.

Doctor Watson sighed and sat on the floor back against the armchair. He eyed the drip he had put into Sherlock's left arm to keep his patient hydrated but it didn't need changing yet. As he had inserted the needle he might have jabbed his friend slightly harder than necessary (something else to feel guilty about). He had been mad at Sherlock for making him cancel his date (although he had to conclude that might be better than just turning up as he often did) instead of going to a hospital or to a relative. He might have been calmer if he had understood WHY Sherlock had gone out. They weren't currently working a case and the man must have known he would get ill.

John stared openly at his sleeping friend wondering at how sheer genius could go hand in hand with such reckless stupidity.

"I'm not!" Sherlock mumbled lifting the top half of his body momentarily before flopping back down. John sighed and crawled forward carefully,

"Easy Sherlock," he soothed winching as his knee protested. His limp might have been psychosomatic but his injuries still plagued him.

"Tell 'em, 'm not," Sherlock shifted round onto his side and leaned over the edge of the sofa,

"Woah, careful!" John pressed up against Sherlock's shoulder to keep him from falling onto the floor. Sherlock's eyes fluttered open at the touch and his fevered eyes found John's clear ones,

"Tell 'em John," he moaned again,

"Tell who what?" John questioned quietly not sure if he would get a clear answer,

"Tell them I'm not a freak!" Sherlock pleaded. John frowned; Sherlock had been called that numerous times in front of John and never reacted.

"Sherlock you need to relax," the agitated man seemed not to hear him,

"Stu'pid …" Sherlock drifted off again and John shuffled back to rest his head back on the seat of the armchair, staring at the ceiling.

When people called Sherlock a freak they did it with certainty; the grass is green, the sky is blue and Sherlock Holmes is a freak. John had never before considered the insult might bother the great Sherlock Holmes a man who had enemies instead of friends. How deeply did Sherlock hide the emotions he claimed not to have?

Even when Anderson had called him a psychopath he had merely corrected him saying he was a sociopath: psychiatrists could argue over the differences but as far as John was concerned he had never felt afraid of Sherlock – however he had been afraid for him and often. The man pushed himself with a childish lack of fear. His unwavering quest to understand and avoid boredom sending him hurtling into all manor of stupid and downright dangerous situations. Staring at the man, John wondered if that was why Mycroft Holmes went to such lengths to know what his brother was doing.

Sherlock whimpered and tried to wiggle out of the light clothes he was wearing. His long t-shirt (he had insisted on wearing) bunched up and John noticed a few pale thin scars on his right arm where it flopped to the floor. His first instinct was to move closer and investigate – find out how much of him the scars covered, how bad they were, try to guess what or who might have made them but he tempered that impulse and looked away. He had promised he would keep Sherlock's confidences and that didn't involve seeking out questions, Sherlock might not want him to ask.

John kept his eyes averted as Sherlock woke again until he had pulled down his sleeve.

"It's hot," the feverish man muttered,

"No you're hot and if you get any worse we'll have to put you in an ice bath,"

"No," Sherlock pouted and rolled over to face the back of the sofa,

"You should already be in hospital with a temperature as high as you have; there is only so much I can do here!" John fretted,

"I'll be fine," John leant forward to hear the muffled words.

"Sherlock you may know … everything about everyone as soon as you meet them but I'm the doctor here so trust me when I say if you get any hotter your precious brain will fry!" John was surprised by his words; that was as assertive as he had ever been with his housemate.

"Humpf," was Sherlock's only reply causing John to close his eyes and shake his head in frustration. The man was annoyingly lucid despite his dangerously high temperature.

Somewhere behind John his phone beeped indicating a text,

"'m not here," Sherlock mumbled. John thought it was a measure of how bad his friend was feeling that he didn't even try to find out what Lestrade wanted. No doubt when he was better he would bemoan the missed opportunity.

"Where are you then?" John reply getting up,

"Somewhere else, anywhere, Iceland … or the Artic …" Sherlock moaned,

"Where it's cold alright then,"

_Is Sherlock with you? Lestrade_

_No. Watson_

John snapped his phone closed, sighed, and sat in the armchair, he was sure he could feel the heat from Sherlock from where he stood across the room.

"What did you write?"

"He asked if you were with me so I text no,"

"No!" Sherlock snapped and shifted his weight over so he was leaning up on his side glaring across at John,

"What?"

"He'll be suspicious by that response!"

"No he won't … why would he?"

Sherlock's arm gave way and he cried out as he landed heavily bashing his already aching head on the armrest,

"Sherlock?"

"Don' wanna be ill anymore," he muttered rolling onto his back and forgetting his anger at John,

"If you took better care of yourself you wouldn't be," John said before he could stop himself,

"Being ill 's not the same as being hurt," Sherlock whispered covering his face with his arm as he rubbed his head,

"Sherlock . . .?"

"Pain is tangible … easily ignored … beneficial even … sometimes … make the world focus … clear,"

"Sherlock stop . . ." Often John wanted nothing more than to learn Sherlock's secrets to figure him out the way he did others but not like this,

"This! This is intolerable! I can't think! My mind repeats itself over and over! Drifting," Sherlock's hands battered against his head,

"Sherlock easy, easy," John stood and held Sherlock's arm,

"I can't stand it!" Sherlock leant upwards to shout the words in John's face,

"Try to sleep then," John ignored the light spittle now covering his face, staring into his agitated friends eyes until he backed down and relaxed,

"You're too good to me," John's patient was calm now and grateful.

"Don't I know it," John muttered wiping his cheek. He ignored his phone as another text came in and instead got the thermometer. He dropped it in Sherlock's mouth stopping whatever smug response he had over the as-yet-to-be-read text. Sherlock huffed but behaved. A minute later it nearly dropped to the floor as Sherlock suddenly fell asleep. The reading had John rushing to the freezer and grabbing a handful of ice cubes. Sherlock insisted on keeping a large amount of ice probably so he could store a hand or foot or some other gruesome body part. John put a couple on Sherlock's chest, stomach and held the rest against the back of his neck. They started melting instantly; dripping through John's finger's to soak the sofa. Sherlock tried to lift his head away but couldn't.

"Easy, you'll feel better in a minute." John soothed.

"Don' wanna go board'in school," Sherlock suddenly complained,

"Not a problem," John answered back despite knowing Sherlock was imagining or more like remembering,

"Don' care My-croft," Sherlock said while exhaling heavily.

"Don' need friends," Sherlock spoke just as the last of the ice melted and John used Sherlock's light-material dressing gown to dry his hand in response.

"Mother I can teach myself," John shook his head as it became clear exactly how early Sherlock's ego had been running riot.

"Teacher's are stupid," Sherlock continued.

John checked the cold press on Sherlock's head and then felt his wrist to gage his heartbeat. The stubborn man seemed to be continuing the argument with his mum but John couldn't understand the words anymore. The doctor settled back into the armchair and finally read his latest text message:

Are you at Baker Street? Lestrade

John sighed and realised he would have a guest if he didn't respond soon. Sherlock whimpered something unintelligible and half opened his eyes,

"Sherlock?"

"Not hun'gry," he said and closed his eyes again. John shook his head – it seemed as though the other man was never hungry.

Yes and Holmes is with me but he is too ill for company. Watson

John closed his phone and his eyes as he sat back in the chair. It was nearly midnight now and John was tired. He was still not used to the all-nighters and the non-stop running around, barely pausing for breath let alone food, when Sherlock was on a case. The genius had claimed once he didn't eat while working. John often wondered if he ate at all.

_How ill? Lestrade_

The detective must be desperate to keep on especially so late in the night.

_If he wasn't so stubborn he would be in hospital._

John didn't know if Holmes would appreciate him telling Lestrade that or not but surely he wouldn't complain if it stopped the detective from knocking on the door. John sighed knowing his roommate was far from reasonable. Hopefully Lestrade would keep Sherlocks aversion to hospitals to himself. Or maybe he would assume him not wanting to go to hospital was just him being his usual awkward self.

_Do you think he would be up for a visit in the morning?_

John sighed in frustration; obviously there was an urgent situation that required Sherlocks attention. Lives probably depended on the world's only consultant detective who would no doubt welcome the visit as a distraction from the boredom of being ill. The doctor however was concerned about the young man pushing himself while still ill.

_It's morning now!_

John text and then realised the detective might take that as an invitation;

_I'll text you early tomorrow afternoon IF his temperature has gone down significantly._

John just had time to read Lestrade's final text message before Sherlock suddenly sat up and shouted,

"Why do I need to know whether something is a fruit or a vegetable?".

_Thanks. Take care of him._


End file.
